


Bolton Family Values

by LelithSugar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Comedy, Consensual, Consensual Kink, Fluff? Sort of?, Humor, If you think this has a happy ending... you're right well done you, M/M, Minor Violence, Ramsay is his own warning, Roose Bolton's A+ Parenting, and Theon loves it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 18:05:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7724440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roose Bolton does his best to accept his son's new... whatever in the hells that thing is. Fair warning that this is sort of silly, sort of cute (to me at least) and passing reference is made to some pretty grim things. It's Thramsay, you signed up for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bolton Family Values

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rileyout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rileyout/gifts).



> This takes some sort of canon situations and absolutely no accuracy from the story and runs in a very different direction. I've gone with 'Yara' rather than Asha and vaguely series!verse, because Iwan Rheon, but there's a passing mention of previous Reek so really I'm counting on you to keep up here.
> 
> For RileyOut, who wanted this so much following that ridiculous jimmy Kimmel interview, and it's unbeta-ed, because she's the only person I can atually think of reading this, so please forgive me if I've not picked up my typos. 
> 
> **Trigger Warning** for passing/veiled references to torture, violence, domestic abuse, dismemberment, extreme pervery and all sorts. There's only mild violence actually within the fic itself though. Proceed with caution if those sorts of things are a sore spot for you.

 

Sometimes, matters had to be met head on. Family dinners in the Dreadfort were not often without spectacle.

“Ramsay...” Roose began, a long suffering sigh in his voice as he handed a plate of preserved meats back to the table's attendant. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Three of the maids I've assigned to cleaning the South tower have deserted my household in as many weeks. One of them can no longer speak. May I take it that you've found yourself a fuck at last?” Roose spooned himself stewed potatoes. Considering the point directly, there had been a change in the lad's demeanour. He was still evidently a sadistic, possibly demented brat but occasionally these days he was doing it with a smile on his face... admittedly that was an intimidating sight in itself, but a good strategist knew how to choose his battles.

Ramsay nodded readily, apparently unfased by the sudden turn of questioning over their meal, but then he'd always had a healthy appetite and a complete lack of chagrin.

Roose risked a smile. “Heh. Who's the lucky lady?” As an afterthought: “If in fact she is still alive?”

“-Prefer boys at the moment,” Ramsay said conversationally, round a mouthful of sausage, not looking up. “You get a fairer fight out of them.”

It could have been worse. Roose wasn't immune to the thrill of a struggle, and liking them struggling was a distinctly wholesome option when you considered the alternatives.

Ramsay wasn't a bad kid, altogether. He was a decent fighter with a cunning strategic mind and a good stock in the family trade of torture and mutilation... which he just seemed to enjoy a little too much. Still, the populace was fittingly terrified of him, and after all, he was the only one of Roose's sons who had made it this far, so he'd given Ramsay the name of his house, the position within his household and a few of his prisoners to amuse himself with: what he did behind closed doors was his own business. Even when it did keep half the castle awake with the screaming and the other half with nightmares. He'd never had any trouble sleeping through the boy's antics, on the whole.

Ramsay clapped the startled cupbearer on the shoulder.

“ _You're_ not afraid to go up to my quarters, are you? Good. If my Reek is sitting by the foot of my bed, could you bring him in?” He smiled warmly. “If he isn't, could you bring him and three good, clean meathooks, about-” Ramsay had gone to gesture a measurement but the cupbearer had already fled up the stairs.

No stamina, these days. Where the fuck did they think they were? High Garden?

This potentially explained a lot of things, as far as Roose was concerned. Young men at a particular phase spending an inordinate amount of time in their bed chambers normally meant one of two things; in Ramsay's case it had tended to mean one of three things and in these instances it unfortunately seemed to be all three at the same time.

The cupbearer returned: without meathooks, thankfully, but with one scraggly, battered husk of a young man covered in knife-point sigils and angry purple bitemarks who appeared, on closer inspection, to be Theon Greyjoy. Ramsay gave a short whistle and his new pet scrambled over himself to sit by his feet.

Roose winced internally. Oh, by the fucking gods. Hadn't they had enough of this with the last one?

Ramsay was fairly beaming, his hand tucked into the matted curls of his charge's hair, and began to growl something at him that Roose was absolutely sure he did not want to hear. He wasn't particularly fond of the idea of challenging him, either: the boy was evidently a lunatic and Roose was quite proud of his dispassionate cruelty, but he was devious with it and all things considered, not definitely lacking the capacity to outwit his old father... in short, Roose was scared of Ramsay, and on the whole that wasn't a problem. If he wanted to skin his servants and fuck his hostages and take the dogs out hunting whores for sport, his father wasn't about to be the one to stop him. The reputation served them both well, and he'd conciously given him the Greyjoy boy because he knew something in his cocky swagger and proud grin would rub Ramsay up the wrong way. By the looks of it though, it had whet the appetite of a wholly more disturbing area of his son's hungers and Roose almost dared not interrupt whatever perverse little episode was going on in front of him, but sooner or later he would at least need know what he was dealing with.

Gently but firmly would be the way to do it. Like taking meat out of the mouth of a hound.

“Let's have a look at him, then.”

Ramsay grinned and bade his pet go over to his father with a boot to the small of his back. Of course it only served to send Theon sprawling face first across the ice-cold stone of the Great Hall.

Like a wolf, Ramsay was on him, grabbing him by the back of the neck and hauling him up, but not without scraping the boy's face against every available surface on the way up. Ramsay inspected the grazes the buckles on his boots and the frost-bitten leather of his jerkin had made on his pet's face; licked a lewd, wet stripe from his collar to his hair line, spat on him and pushed him back to the floor.

“You know better. Crawl.”

Theon righted himself and did as Ramsay told him almost eagerly, without being forced or threatened, which Roose knew to actually be a far worse portent than it seemed – the gods only knew what he'd done to him to make him that compliant.

Not for the first time, Roose tried to remember what in the world he'd fucked to end up spawning this mess.

He was pleased, however, that on inspection Ramsay appeared to have reigned his tecniques in on his second attempt. The pet he'd made this time was at least able to stand up straight, and remember the name his father had given him. He was coherent throughout a brief questioning - yes he was being fed, no fevers or sickness, yes m'lord, no m'lord - and he met Roose's eyes with a startling clarity, lips determinedly set, almost edging towards a smile. He straightened properly when Ramsay unfastened the neck of his undershirt and showed off the locked iron ring circling Theon's neck and resting on his collarbones... If Roose hadn't known any better, he would have thought the boy was enjoying the attention. Plus, he still had all the fingers he'd arrived with and although his skin was heavily marked, he was at least still wearing it.

Could it be that Ramsay really did hold some affection – perhaps even attraction? - towards the boy? It was hard to tell what was going on behind that predatory smirk. The young Kraken had been looked after well enough to make a passable hostage: he looked like he'd been fucked by a fulling stock with teeth, granted, but he still had spirit: Roose thought perhaps a couple of times that he'd seen their eyes meet, which was notably unusual as even he was too unnerved to look Ramsay in the face a lot of the time. Throughout their breif conversation, Ramsay's touches ranged between heavy-handed affection and casual spite but he touched the boy often.

And then, too quickly to pin down, inexorable as coming lucid from a nightmare but in reverse, Roose had seen a tension in the mannerisms and the way Theon shifted that had made him look down and … the boy had an erection.

Seven hells. They were as fucking mad as each other. Well, good luck to them.

Roose Bolton thought carefully for a couple of long moments, looking from his son to the Greyjoy boy and back again, not in any way sure which he was more disturbed by. What was clear was that they had reached some point of deviant sexual impasse, and as long as his son had the upper hand in that then this little mess could well be the least of many, many problems beseiging the Dreadfort at that moment. What this meant for the war, he couldn't say... perhaps he could even claim to have given Ramsay permission to do anything and everything but let the boy die, if any of them lived long enough for it ever to need explaining.

Yes. Having the heir to Pyke as a hostage had been a strong position, but having him as a ward and a potential ally was another... Granted, that hadn't gone terribly well for the Starks, but their beloved fucking winter had indeed come and times had changed.

Roose stood, the decision made, and smoothly pulled Greyjoy in for a crushing, masculine hug.

Before anyone could realy discuss or clarify the arrangement, a footman burst in, snow covered and breathless.

“The coast, sir. Ironborn sails incoming. Raiders from Pyke.”

Oh, this was going to take some explaining.

 

***

Yara Greyjoy had been told her brother was a wreck of a man, beaten to breaking point and cowering at the feet of Roose Bolton's mad son, but what she actually found was sickeningly more familiar than that. She'd seen him get that look in his eyes before.

Granted a private audience at last, she slopped a mug of dark ale down in front of her brother, who flinched just like he was supposed to.

“There. Now, would you care to drink that and explain to me exactly why the fuck I have sailed all this way to rescue you from unspeakable plight and found you on some kind of freezing pervert honeymoon?”

Theon choked on his beer. He'd expected concern and escape plans; he'd forgotten how strongly the intuition of their bond ran in her blood. There was no point even trying to deny it. He let his feigned wide-eyed obedience drop and chuckled.

“Ah, come now. I didn't send for you. Are you telling me you've not had any fun whatsoever on the way here?” It was Yara's turn to smirk into her tankard. “I thought not. I'll bet my left hand if you take that chest plate off, there'll be as many teeth marks on you as there are on me.”

Yara laughed proper. “Keep your limbs on, Theon. I'll take your point although on the whole you'll find I prefer to do the majority of the biting.” It made sense, if not least because of the glee with which she punched him in the shoulder. “And stop tring to get me to take my clothes off, you fucking disgrace.”

Theon's grin told her he was absolutely no less of a disgrace than when she'd last seen him and she was grateful for it. She could read the sense in the little charade that was going on, the necessity in spreading gory terror around the seven kingdoms, but how and why it had taken the deviant little turn that it evidently had... yes, that had her brother's proclivities written all over it and if he'd finally met his match in the Bolton bastard then, well... it could have been so much worse. It was certainly a far more amusing turn of events than the version she'd heard at home.

Yara reached out and skimmed the back of her finger across an inflamed but clean poker burn on her brother's forearm, and asked hesitantly “..and this? How much of this is for show?”

“Some of it looks much worse than it is.” Theon wriggled his tunic up over his head, struggling for a moment and emerging rumpled, beaming, the extent of his abused upper body on show, “but most of it doesn't.” His bright look was of twisted pride.

Yara gave in to his urging and began to examine some of his burns and bruises, wearily reassured when he shuddered - unable to surpress his enjoyment - when she prodded a few wounds. She took in the straight, shallow cuts; the rope burns that bisected his upper arms; the feint brandings and obvious imprints of teeth that were sure to scar and, least worrying but perhaps most conspicuously, the four unmistakeable yellowing-purple fingerprint bruises grasping each hipbone. Yara didn't need to see the back of him to picture the thumb marks that would complete the grip, and the sheer obscenity of that made her snort ale from her nose in laughter.

Theon caught where her gaze was resting, tongued at his split lip and flashed Yara the filthiest smile she'd seen in all her life.

“Fucking gods Theon, really. Have you no shame at all?”

“Absolutely none,” he grinned back. “I'm not allowed any. Same as I'm not allowed real clothes upstairs. Or to refuse anything he puts in my mouth.” Sinking off his seat, he settled easily onto the floor opposite her feet and took up a langurous, comfortable lounge against the chair legs, retrieving his drink just in time to chuckle into the cup, “...and I'm not usually allowed on the furniture.”

Yara rolled her eyes. She wasn't about to do her brother the service of looking scandalised.

“You look like you're in his bed often enough.”

“Oh, that I may be. Though, there's rarely actually a bed involved...” Once again, Theon's painfully lascivious smile was made all the more vulgar by his refusal to look his sister in the eye: so there was still some decorum in him, somewhere. “...and there is no such thing as 'often enough.'”

“Oh, god fucking drown me. I do NOT want to know.” Yara was pleased that her brother was happy, healthy and most of all intact, but there was definitely a limit to how much she could hear before an image formed in her mind that it was going to take a hell of a lot of ale or tits to get rid of.

And there were a whole load of coastal towns on the journey home for ale and tits. She might not even go home... she had a fleet, after all, and she'd just come all the way up here to freeze the bollocks off her crew and for what? To find her rescue mission had used his – _unique_ \- charms to shack up with the most untouchable family on the mainland, the randy little shit. She should have known. Still, it needn't be a wasted journey. There were a few ports sorely in need of a good raiding, and if her brother was happy enough doing some raiding of his own up here, then...

Yara furrowed her eyebrows and put her drink down. Something had just occurred to her.

“So tell me something...”

“I thought you didn't want to hear it?”

“... Exactly whose cock is currenlty rotting in a box on our father's desk?”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And I'm done. And I'm sorry but I'm not sorry in the slightest. 
> 
> This was not the fic I was supposed to write... which is also going to make an appearance at some point, so if Consensual!Thramsey silliness and smut fletches your arrows, drop me a comment or something. Hells, I'll even take prompts. This is my first public fanfic in about five years so I'd appreciate the encouragement.
> 
> Also, my thesaurus app quite cheerfully suggested “Gone to the dogs” as an alternate for 'vulgar' when I was writing this... oh no, thesaurus, honey, no...


End file.
